Who Are You?
Flash Fiction
Flash fiction strikes! This is a bit more of a personal piece, in ways that are hard to describe. I wondered whether this “fit” with my other fiction here and ultimately I decided it does: I enjoy fiction for its ability to explore worlds. Most often I explore exterior worlds—but occasionally I explore interior ones. I present to you, for your consideration, this world:
“Who are you?”
More accusation than question, addressed to the reflection he found in the mirror. The fat, balding, unshaven, scabby image looking back at him. His eyes were sharp—searching, looking. Looking for flaws, looking for weaknesses. Criticizing himself before anyone else in the world had a chance to criticize him first. The stranger in the mirror—this empty husk of a man—looking back at him from a cheap, stained mirror, which stood over an ancient sink which smelled of ancient ruins, which stood in front of a cheap, tattered, polyester shower curtain and it’s mildewed and soap-stained plastic liner.
“Who are you?”
It was 6am. He hadn’t woken up on purpose, but now he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He began his day with the accusation every day, partly to force himself to decide what kind of man he would be today, and partly as a genuine question—a question that he carried with him all his life, an unanswered question that he needed to answer before he could start living.
He splashed water on his face and made the short journey to his kitchen, where he brewed cheap, bland coffee from a tin can in a paper cup, on a cheap electric water kettle. Because he was bestowed with extra time, he would take advantage of it. He would sit with his crappy coffee and watch the sun rise from his favorite spot out in the common area of the apartment complex. Today, he decided, he would be the romantic. The poet. The misunderstood artist. The kind of person who appreciated sunrises.
He stirred the coffee in the paper cup, and slipped into some flip-flops. Today he would be the ascetic monk, who endured cold out of monastic self-flagellation. The man of simple means, who didn’t need much of anything to live well. He stepped outside his apartment, and the cold immediately bit into him. He grit his teeth—an offering, it’s an offering—he reminded himself. He shuffled out to the little park in the middle of the garden-style apartment complex. The blue-hour was already under way, the sky an expectant grey with only a few wisps of high-altitude clouds revealing the rosy pink and orange of the coming dawn. He shuffled across the parking lot, over the sand and rocks, over the dead grass, over the playground mulch, to the specific bench. The bench with a view to the east, between Building D and building E.
He sat heavily on the bench, and stared blankly at the narrow gap where the blue was gradually brightening. He sipped his crappy coffee, and imagined a new beginning for himself. Today—today, he decided—he would begin. He would talk to everyone he encountered, he would choose the human checkout line, he would make small-talk with whoever sat next to him on the bus. No—he would WALK to work. Yeah it would take longer, but exercise does a body good. Today he would be the man-about-town, all charisma and decorum. That gal who worked the receptionist desk in the Monroe building downtown, who he passed on his way to work and waved a smiling hello to—he would talk to her! For the first time. Just to say thank you, thank you for being a smiling face that starts his work day.
He smiled, thinking about that man. And then, his smile faded, as he sipped his crappy coffee, as he remembered that he is not that man. No, he’s the fat, balding, unshaven, scabby man from the mirror this morning. He’s the man who waves and walks quickly away. He’s the man who keeps his thermostat set high in winter and low in summer.
The blue sky turns a fiery red as the first rays of sun pierce the horizon. He may not be THOSE men but he is still the man who sits and watches the sunrise. He can still be that man. At least for today, he is that man, as evidenced by the fact that he is in fact sitting here on his favorite bench, watching the sun rise between buildings D and E.
A man in a nice suit is walking across the parking lot. He stares more intently at the sunrise, trying to appear distracted, or busy—trying not to let the man in the suit notice that he had been noticed. His heart raced as the man in the suit paused, and walked towards him. He sipped his crappy coffee.
The man in the nice suit approached, and a little ways out said, “Mind if I join you?”
He nodded politely and amiably. “Sure! By all means! Sun’s rising.”
“Yes! Beautiful, isn’t it.”
“It really is.”
The two watched for a few moments as the textured undersides of clouds blended from red to orange seamlessly and imperceptibly.
He sipped his coffee, trying not to feel uncomfortable by the man in the suit. But—maybe, it was an opportunity. Maybe it was an opportunity to practice being that man-about-town, with that effortless charisma.
“You new to the complex? I haven’t seen you around.”
“I guess so. Names Angelo, nice to meet you.” The man in the suit held out a hand.
“Nice to meet you, too.” He shook it, careful to do so with masculine firmness, as an equal to the suave young-looking suited man, so the suave young-looking suited man wouldn’t make some comment about the inadequacy of his handshake.
“Sorry—what’s your name, friend?” The suited man asked.
He did a double take—right, that’s what you’re supposed to do—he shared his name, he was looking for my name back— “Oh, sorry, name’s Joe,” Joe fumbled. Dang it, not off to a good start, Mr. Man-about-town!
“I’m just giving you a hard time Joe, I know who you are.” Angelo leaned back in the bench.
Joe laughed uncomfortably but tried to make it sound relaxed. “I—how?”
“I probably know you better than anyone.”
Joe looked at Angelo, as if for the first time. “How?”
Angelo leaned over and patted Joe on the back. “You’re doing great, Joe. Just wanted you to know that. And, here, I brought something for you.” Angelo held out a folded up slip of paper.
Joe accepted the paper, and looked at it—unsure what was happening. “What is this?”
“It’s the answer to your question.” Angelo winked at him.
“Which question?”
“Who are you?”
Joe unfolded the slip of paper. The warm sunlight hit his face, finally cresting the horizon in the narrow gap between buildings D and E, bathing him with light.
Joe read the paper silently, and big tears began to roll down his cheeks.
He looked up, and Angelo was gone, nowhere to be seen.
Roll credits: This was written under the influence of this song.
Thank you so much for reading! God bless you.
AJPM
Amazing, brother. This one hits hard but in the best way.
That was delightfully unexpected.